Fluminis antiquitas
by formaldehyde.corruption
Summary: In 2038, Azalea Lupin has been raised during a reign of peace. On the first day of her sixth year, she comes across an old bit of parchment that sends her careening ninety-five years into the past, where she has no idea how to address the issue of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.
1. Praefatio

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. Any characters that you recognize all belong to the beautiful mind of JK Rowling. I do however own Azalea Lupin and a fair amount of people from her time period.

**Story Title**: Fluminis antiquitas

**Summary**: In 2038, Azalea Lupin has been raised during a reign of peace. On the first day of her sixth year, she comes across an old bit of parchment that sends her careening ninety-five years into the past, where she has no idea how to address the issue of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.

**Rated: M**, for probable violence and sexual situations

**AN**: So… Azalea popped into my head one day when I was thinking about how kick-ass Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley's kids would be. I mean seriously, with his Metamorphmagus abilities and her Veela ancestry? Those kids could take over the planet! Also, I love Tom Riddle romance stories so… I present to you the (hopefully) epic romance of Tom Riddle and Azalea Lupin!

PS: The title is Latin for 'The River of Time'. It's probably shitty Latin too, since I got it off Google Translate. Trust me, there's more shitty Latin to come. Praefatio, for instance, means 'Preface'.

**Update Schedule:** Likely to be unpredictable and sporadic. I may update several days in a row at some points, and at others, not update for months. I start my first year of university on September 22, so I really, really doubt your going to see a schedule that's even remotely reliable.

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**Praefatio**

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She had ruined everything.

She was supposed to be intelligent. Everyone had always told her how very _smart_ she was, how she was practically a _genius, _she was a bloody _Ravenclaw_, for Merlin's sake, but it seemed that when it came to displaying a _shred_ of common sense, she was sorely lacking.

And now the whole world was paying for it.

As she hid herself with a stranger's face, the Metamorphmagus watched the girl before her in horror. She was stunning, even in her obvious misery, and it made for a haunting beauty. Her silver eyes were dull, surrounded by the dark circles of insomnia, and her silver curls were flat, matted, and she looked short and skinny, like she'd spent her whole life undernourished.

The girl was her.

Or, her as she would have been if she had been born into a world where Voldemort had won and she had been raised in a rebel camp. Which was exactly what had happened in this version of the future, the future that she herself had created.

She'd changed too much in the past. She never should have so much as spoken to him, much less taught him how to be a more effective dictator. And that's exactly what she had done. In this version of the timeline, he knew the value of love, what people would do for it, and he had used this knowledge to manipulate more effectively than ever. He used it to win the war.

And it was a lesson that _she_ had taught him, however inadvertently.

She turned away, stumbling into the forest surrounding the rebel camp, morphing back into herself as loud sobs escaped her. She collapsed into the dirt just as freezing cold rain began to fall from the gray sky above. Her silver curls bounced healthily as her knees hit the ground hard, and she could feel the warmth of blood blossoming.

She gathered fistfuls of her long curly hair, inspecting the roundness, the delicacy of each curl. The silver color that she had inherited from her Veela great-great-grandmother seemed to almost glitter with life and vitality. The dirty, matted curls of her other self flashed across her eyes as she reassured herself that _no_, that wasn't who she was. She had not been raised in a rebel camp, she had not grown up constantly on the move for fear of being captured by Death Eaters. _She_ had grown up during a time of peace.

A time of peace that she had ruined, and all because she fell in love with a boy who liked to play with dark magic.

The most painful part was that that boy was not the monster that her other self was so very afraid of. That boy was beautiful and intelligent, sly and cunning and ambitious. That boy was not the red-eyed demon of every child's worst nightmare. That boy had not succumbed to madness, not the way that the monster had. And even now, she _loved_ that boy.

"I am not that girl, and he is not that monster," she whispered to herself, lying down in the mud, letting the rain soak through her clothes, the cold stinging her skin until she was numb.

"I am not that girl, and he is not that monster," she whispered again, trying desperately to convince herself as hot tears flowed down her temples and into her now muddy hair.

A loud sob escaped her.

"Oh, Tom, what have we become?"

.:~{+}~:.

**AN 2:** This is so short because it's a little introductory thing. I swear, following chapters will be much longer.


	2. I: Cum fata coire

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. Any characters that you recognize all belong to the beautiful mind of JK Rowling. I do however own Azalea Lupin and a fair amount of people from her time period.

**Story Title**: Fluminis antiquitas

**Summary**: In 2038, Azalea Lupin has been raised during a reign of peace. On the first day of her sixth year, she comes across an old bit of parchment that sends her careening ninety-five years into the past, where she has no idea how to address the issue of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.

**Rated: M**, for probable violence and sexual situations

**AN**: I feel the need to warn you that there is actually still no Tom sightings in this chapter. This is kind of more about how Azalea actually ended up in the past in the first place.

PS: The title is Latin for 'The River of Time'. It's probably shitty Latin too, since I got it off Google Translate. Trust me, there's more shitty Latin to come. Cum fata coire, for instance, means 'A Meeting with Destiny'.

.:~{+}~:.

**I. Cum fata coire .I**

.:~{+}~:.

Azalea stood in silent amusement as her mother's hands fluttered about her firetruck red curls, an expression of distaste on her face, though she was cearly trying to hide it. Her father must have noticed too, because after a wink in her direction as his own hair turned the violent shade of red, he laughed at her mother.

"Honestly, Vic," he laughed, "You never seemed to mind when I had my hair in all shades!"

Victoire Lupin huffed, realizing she'd been caught out, and finally allowed herself to inspect her daughter's bright hair more closely.

"Well, I was young and stupid," she deadpanned. At the stunned look on her husband's face, she snickered. His face cleared as he realized he was being teased.

"Oh, hardy har ha, you're so funny, Victoire."

She smiled at him lovingly. "I was young and was into the rocker look, yes, but I was far from stupid. I picked you, after all."

Azalea pretended to be sick as her parents went googly-eyed. In reality, she found it very sweet that her parents were still so in love after having been together for twenty-one years, and hoped that perhaps she could love someone that much someday.

"Alright, alright, break up the eye-loving. Dad, you still haven't loaded my luggage yet!"

Her father looked back to her, his eyebrow raising as his hair faded back into his natural sandy blond, his preferred color. Azalea knew it hadn't always been so. She'd seen pictures of him as a teenager, and she knew that he'd been just as fond of experimenting with his hair color as she was. Apparently her birth had mellowed him out though, because the dark blond became more and more common in the photo albums after the first few years of her parents' marriage.

"That's quite the presumptuous tone you have there, Princess. I should make you load your own luggage, before you wind up like some spoiled Malfoy twat!" he teased.

Victoire slapped his chest, stifling a giggle. "Teddy, Rose is married to one of those 'spoiled Malfoy twats' as you so eloquently put it! And her son is one as well!"

Teddy rolled his eyes. "Leo doesn't count, he's seven."

Azalea raised her eyebrows as her dad picked up her luggage and began to load it for her. "And what about Scorpius?" she asked playfully. "Does he count?"

Her father grinned mischievously back at her. "Of course he counts, Lea. He's a bloody Slytherin."

Azalea laughed as her last bag was loaded. "You're such a Gryffindor, Dad."

"And proud!" he exclaimed, puffing out his chest ridiculously.

The train's shrill whistle cut through their conversation, a warning that it was about to depart. Azalea suddenly found herself being embraced by her mother tightly. Her bright red curls were being stroked, despite the fact that her mum didn't seem to appreciate the color.

"Have fun this year, but keep your studies in mind. If you do well enough this year, you might be Head Girl next year!"

Azalea brightened at the thought of being Head Girl. She was already a Prefect, so it was definitely feasible. She wanted to be a Healer, and the statistics that she had researched showed that though students who had qualified for Headship in their final year at Hogwarts only made up about 2.3% of the population, they made up 74% of all graduates from the Healer Training Program, proving that only the very smartest could make careers as Healers. Azalea was determined to become Head Girl next year, and to enter the Healer Training Program upon graduation with stellar NEWT results and shining references from her teachers. Her OWL results had already been astounding. She'd been told upon receiving them that she had made the second best results out of anyone in the last hundred years.

Of course, that information would have been far more flattering if the one to steal first place from her hadn't been Voldemort, or, as he was known while he was in school, Tom Riddle.

Her mother pulled back from the hug, and she was then embraced by her father. "She's a Ravenclaw, Victoire. When _isn't_ she focusing on her studies?"

Azalea pulled away with a roll of her silver eyes. "I'm not that much of a bore, Dad."

"Don't know about that," he teased, kissing her forehead. "But really, I love you, have fun," he said, serious this time.

"Love you too, guys," she said, already beginning to eye the train, excitement for the year to come pleading with her to board.

Her mum must have had similar thoughts. "Go on then, darling, before they leave without you."

After one last round of hugs, Azalea was finally on the train, searching the compartments for her best friend, Calla Summerbee. Azalea had known Calla from her very first week of life. Her mother was Lucy Weasley, or as she was known since her marriage, Lucy Summerbee. Azalea was friendly with most relations of the Weasley family, as aside from being one herself, her dad had grown up very close to the family. Thus her lifelong friendship with Calla had not suffered when Azalea was sorted into Ravenclaw, and Calla into Gryffindor.

Azalea finally spotted Calla near the back of the train. She was sat with Azalea's cousin, Sapphire Montague, who was the daughter of Azalea's Aunt Dominique. Sapphire was a year younger than Azalea and Calla, and a Slytherin to boot, but it was still not unusual to see the three girls together.

She opened the compartment door with a smile. Neither of them bothered to look up. Calla seemed to busy staring out the window of the now moving train, while Sapphire was absorbed in the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_.

"It's just me, there's no need to be so excited," she said sarcastically.

Calla snorted and looked over to her. Despite having the family name Summerbee, she looked every inch the Weasley, with vivid red hair, a littering of freckles across her pale skin and sharp, mischievous features. The only thing she'd inherited from her father were a pair of light, spring green eyes.

"We saw you yesterday," Sapphire explained into the pages of her magazine. She had the same strawberry-blonde hair that her mother had, and she shared Azalea's silver eyes and flawless pale skin, but that was where the similarities ended. They had both inherited the Veela gene for beauty, but it had manifested differently in each girl. Azalea had inherited more of the Veela features, causing her to look almost exotic with her tilted, cat-like silver eyes, enhanced by high cheekbones and full lips. The foreign nature of her looks was further exacerbated by her penchant for choosing unusual colors for her hair. Sapphire on the other hand, was beautiful in a more approachable way, with a cute little upturned nose and a bright smile and friendly eyes.

"Fair enough," Azalea shrugged, collapsing on the seat opposite the other two. She had just started to relax when she remembered that, as a Prefect, she had to attend the meeting at the head of the train.

"Oh, bollocks," she muttered, already starting to get up.

"What is it?" Calla asked. Sapphire looked up momentarily, only to get sucked back into the world of which socialite was screwing around with which musician this week.

"I've just remembered the Prefect's meeting," she groaned, "I've not even changed into my school robes yet!"

Sapphire seemed largely unsympathetic. "You're the one who wanted to be a Prefect. And to think, you want to be Head Girl next year! I bet you'll be late to everything!"

Calla looked at Sapphire incredulously. "Sapphire!" she hissed, using a tone that said 'shut up' more clearly than words could ever hope to accomplish.

Sapphire shrugged, a few of her titian locks shimmering in a way that was very non-human with the motion of her shoulders. "It's true though, isn't it?"

It _was_ true. People were often surprised to find how very often she was late for appointments, how easily she disregarded the rules, when they were told that she was a Ravenclaw. It was purely her thirst for knowledge that had landed her in her house.

As Sapphire and Calla squabbled over whether it was an appropriate thing to say to her face, Azalea sighed and made her way into the bathroom to change into her Ravenclaw robes. When she emerged, she had a shiny gold Prefect's badge pinned to the blue folds of her robe, and she felt more confident as a result of the symbol of authority.

She made her way to the Heads compartment, where the Prefect meeting was taking place, ignoring the stares that her unnatural red hair drew as it bounced around her waist.

The meeting, of course, was already about half-way through when she entered the compartment. The Head Girl, Slytherin Evangeline Sykes, glared at her darkly for interrupting, but the Ravenclaw Head Boy, Atticus Ridgebit, merely smiled at her and shook his head, amused.

Azalea smiled sheepishly back at her boyfriend before sitting and listening to the rest of the meeting, which basically included all the same tripe she'd heard last year, when she'd first been awarded her Prefect badge.

When it was finally over, Atticus waited until everyone else had cleared out of the compartment before gently tugging Azalea closer by the waist. "Hello, love," he said, right before kissing her. She returned the kiss happily. They'd been dating for six months now, having gotten together at the very end of February, but had spent most of the summer apart, as he had spent a lot of time with Hagrid doing an extra credit project for Care of Magical Creatures. Atticus wanted to be a Magizoologist, and from everything that Azalea had heard, the extra credit project would look fantastic when he applied for an internship to learn the ropes of Magizoology, in the same way that attaining perfect grades in Potions would help her become a Healer. Azalea had already put Atticus in contact with family friend Luna Scamander, one of the best Magizoologists to date, something that her boyfriend had been unendingly grateful for.

Nevertheless, she had missed him over the summer. She'd actually spent the end of summer fretting about seeing him again, afraid that their time apart would have changed things, but as far as she could tell, everything was the same as where they left off at the end of their fifth year. It made her sigh contentedly against him.

He pulled back slightly, so they could look at one another. His eyes were the most interesting shade of hazel she'd ever seen, with a base of earthy brown, and mossy green flecks throughout, and a feline amber color hugging the rims of his pupils. The yellow color at the center seemed all the more bright because of his dark brown hair.

"I have to go find Professor Slughorn," he said. "You know it's his last year teaching, and I think he wants to talk to me and Evangeline about perhaps throwing together a party committee or something so that he can have a retirement party. You know how old Sluggy likes his drama."

Azalea laughed and nodded. As a member of the Slug Club, she _did_ know the Potions Professor's penchant for drama.

"I'll go wait for you in the compartment, okay?"

After one last kiss goodbye, Azalea started making her way back towards the back of the train. She got to the compartment just as Sapphire was coming out, Alden Flint at her side.

"Oh, Azalea, you're back. I'm going to go and sit with some of my housemates for a bit, alright?"

Azalea shrugged. "Yeah, sure." Beginning to step into the compartment, she realized that Calla wasn't there either, and she was all alone. Sticking her head back out into the hall, she called out to Sapphire, who'd made it quite a fair way down with Alden hot on her heels.

"Hey, Sapph, where's Calla?"

Sapphire made a slight shrugging motion. "Toilet, I think she said."

Azalea sat down in the empty compartment with a sigh. She hoped Calla didn't meet up with her boyfriend, Ethan King, on the way back. Calla seemed to adore him, but Azalea found him about fifty different kinds of annoying.

Bored, she stood and spun in a slow circle, looking at all corners of the train compartment for inspiration. Finding nothing, she eventually made the decision to finish her Potions book for that year, which she'd already started over the summer. She flopped down gracelessly onto the seat, and had just started to reach for her school bag when she noticed a bit of parchment fluttering to the ground from between the cushions that she had disturbed.

Her nature as a Ravenclaw lead her to be curious, so she picked it up. It looked like a very old bit of parchment, faded and yellowing and torn at the edges, with that very soft texture that paper takes on after much abuse. It was also blank. She flipped it over, and sure enough, there was writing on the other side. It was dated at the top.

_1 June, 1945_

Azalea's eyes widened. 1945? This parchment was ninety-three years old! It was a piece of history! In June, 1945, the war with Grindelwald had only just come to an end. This bit of parchment was from a time when no one had so much as even _heard_ the name Voldemort, much less knew to fear it.

She found herself entranced by the beautiful writing on the page, the letters thick and bold in a way that made her suspect it was written by a male hand, and yet so embroidered with twists and swirls that it almost looked more like art than a form of writing.

So distracted was she by the graceful swoop of each letter, that it took Azalea a moment to realize that the words she was staring at were written in a different language. It looked like Latin, and she began whispering the words out loud to herself, as though hearing the words rather than just seeing them would make her able to understand their meaning.

_Dimmitte me, iam flumina,_

_Quo sequar ubi current ducat,_

_Complexus et accipe fatis_

"What…" Azalea whispered in confusion at the words, squinting as though that would make them understandable.

And that was when she noticed that her hands were beginning to fade.

She watched in horror as first her fingers, then her palms, followed by her wrists and arms slowly but steadily _disappeared_. With a terrified glance downwards, she could see that the same thing was happening to her feet and legs. She tried to scream, but by that point, her throat and vocal chords had disappeared, and her face soon followed.

The moment that her eyes were swallowed by the nothingness, she found herself somewhere altogether _other_, a place that felt so full that Azalea could have screamed at the feeling of being so very squashed, but which swallowed her screams so completely, that the space around her could have been made of nothing. It occurred to her, while she was in this space, that for a Ravenclaw, she was incredibly stupid, reading what she now realized was an incantation from a near-hundred-year-old parchment without knowing what she was evoking. The thought came upon her that she may never see anyone that she loved ever again, or indeed, anyone _at all_, and the thought made her want to cry, but she was so exhausted by that point that she could not summon the strength.

She did not know how long she was there for. It could have been years, or mere seconds. All she knew was that when she next came to a place that was _somewhere_, she was back in the train compartment, only this time she was not alone. The sighting of another human being was such a relief that she didn't even care that she had never before seen him in her life, she granted the strangely dressed individual the brightest smile she could muster.

He returned her smile by staring at her as though she were the most fascinating creature he'd ever come across with blue eyes that twinkled behind half-moon spectacles

He was the first to speak.

"I don't believe I have ever seen anyone with such a unique shade of red hair before."

She blinked at him, still slightly dazed and confused from her ordeal. She slowly looked down to her curls, and realized they were still the vivid scarlet she'd chosen that morning.

"Oh, yes. I'm a Metamorphmagus, you see."

"Ah." He nodded. "Yes, that explains a fair bit. What it does not explain however, is why you are wearing Ravenclaw robes and a Prefect badge when I am quite sure I have never seen you before."

Azalea furrowed her brow. "I'm sorry… who are you?"

"I am Albus Dumbledore, Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Perhaps a better question to be asking, my dear, is who are _you_?"

At the name 'Albus Dumbledore', everything slid into sharp focus around her, and a terrible suspicion began to form in her mind, because where she was from, Albus Dumbledore was dead, and had been for forty-one years. Additionally, she'd _seen_ his portrait in the Headmaster's office, and his hair had certainly lost all of the auburn color that she was staring at now. Combined with the fact that he still called himself a Transfigurations Professor, Azalea was beginning to suspect that she was quite a bit further from home than she was comfortable with.

"I… could you… could you possibly tell me what the date is?" she asked in a whisper, as though voicing the question quietly could reduce the impact of his answer.

His expression suddenly became very grave, and his eyes flashed with understanding.

"Today is 1 September, 1943."

.:~{+}~:.

**AN 2**: The fact that the parchment is dated 1945 and Azalea ends up in 1943 is not a mistake. It all becomes clear by the end of the story. Review please!

**Translation:** The Latin incantation that Azalea reads means 'Release me into the river of time, where I shall follow where the current may lead, and accept my destiny with open arms'.


End file.
